


Admirable Weaknesses

by Chokopoppo



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers: Prime
Genre: Belligerent Sexual Tension, Blow Jobs, Caliginous Romance | Kismesis, Exposition, Gratuitous descriptions of robot anatomy, Hate Sex, M/M, Polyamory, Sickfic, Sticky Sexual Interfacing, Surgery, Technobabble, Tenderness, Valve Fingering (Transformers), Wheeljack/Ratchet(one sided), hate flirting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-03
Updated: 2019-03-03
Packaged: 2019-11-08 19:02:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,914
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17986850
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chokopoppo/pseuds/Chokopoppo
Summary: "I wonder, Ratchet, did you take this job because it was on…what was it, you said? It was awfully pretty—“ Pharma snaps his fingers, throws on a painfully false expression of sudden enlightenment. “That’s right, ‘the bleeding edge of the warfront’—or did you come becauseOrion Paxasked you to?”Wherein Optimus Prime is struck down by a rare and virtually untreatable injury, and Ratchet--unfortunately--knows exactly who to call.





	Admirable Weaknesses

**Author's Note:**

> Well, I've had this baby in my bosom for like four months and it's time to just let it go. Let it go. Get it on outta there. I can't believe this, honestly. I was certain the first thing I'd give to this fandom would be tender Optiratch where they're just, like, touching each other's faces and are either sad or horny about it or whatever. Instead it's whatever this is. Well, if you want to be very mean to me on the internet, or a normal amount of nice, you can find me on tumblr at [this link](http://www.chokopoppo.tumblr.com). Stay safe out there cowboys.
> 
> Alternative title for this fic: Everyone Loves Ratchet

“Ratchet’s been in there for three _days,_ ” Arcee says in Bulkhead’s quiet confidence, “it never takes this long. I’m starting to get scared.”

“What, just now?”

“I mean for him,” she says. “I mean, when’s the last time he refueled? Does anyone know?”

The base is mostly quiet—the kids are playing the same video game they’ve been playing for the past four hours, and Bumblebee keeps beeping excitedly, which probably means Rafael is winning. Every once in a while, Miko yells something about the care and keeping of small trees. At least, that’s what it sounds like from across the room, where the two older bots are trying to talk without notice.

Arcee has a lot of concerns a lot of the time, and while she’s got a soft bit in her spark for the kids, she’s not sure she wants them to know what she’s thinking about. Normally, she would talk her feelings out with Cliff, but—well, that hasn’t been an option for months. More than a year now.

The point is, Bulkhead’s not always her first choice, but he’s usually in the top three. And right now, she’s worried enough that she’s got to talk to _someone._ Even the big guy. She just hopes he’s got the sense not to let Miko catch wind of it.

“We’re all stretched thin,” Bulkhead says, shrugging, “no one’s got the time to babysit anyone else. Besides, Ratch knows how to take care of himself. He’s probably been refueling on our off-shifts.”

“I don’t know. Whenever something happens with Optimus, he gets…” she shrugs helplessly. “I’m just worried. Someone should go check on him.”

“Hey,” Bulkhead says, putting a huge hand on her shoulder, “he’s gonna be _fine._ We all know Ratch isn’t gonna stop researching, come hell or high water, when any of us go down. Optimus has got the best doctor on this, or any, planet, working day and night. He’ll pull through.”

Arcee nods, and crosses her arms. “Right. Thanks,” she says. Then, one brow ridge raised, “Hell or high water?”

“It’s…a human thing. June said it once.” Bulkhead glances over at the kids, who don’t seem to have noticed their conversation yet. “I dunno. I thought it was kind of cute.”

“It is kind of cute. I guess ‘high water’ is bad weather, but what do you think ‘hell’ is? Good weather?”

“Maybe it’s some kind of social thing. Like someone you don’t like, giving you a hard time.”

“Or your friend going into recharge and just not getting up at the end of the chronometer’s period,” Arcee says, feeling bitter. Bulkhead winces.

“Arcee—“

“You two _know_ I can _hear_ you, right?” Ratchet asks, emerging from the medibay. They both jump. “If you really want to do something helpful, you can give me a preliminary report about the Decepticon outposts in the seventh sector on the southern hemisphere.”

“All quiet,” Arcee says, “Smokescreen’s on patrol. How’s Optimus?”

Ratchet scoffs. “As per usual, his vitals are holding fine,” he says. “I just ran a full invasive check of his systems. Everything is self-regulating properly. None of my scanners are picking up anything unusual. As long as he’s being provided with energon, and minor oil and lubricant replenishments on occasion, he will remain healthy, and alive, if unconscious.” 

“So that’s it? The scanners won’t pick anything up, so he’s _fine?_ ”

“I’ve seen this before. Back when I was still in medical school,” he says, glancing surreptitiously towards the kids on the balcony. “ _Parsaeterna necius._ It’s rare. _If_ it’s what I think it is, a colleague of mine was able to treat it…wrote his thesis about the process.”

Bulkhead glances at Arcee. “That’s great,” he says, “so you know what to do!”

“It’s _not_ great,” Ratchet replies, “I reread his thesis, and it’s essentially gibberish. The language is archaic, it’s overcompensating for itself with impossible academic syntax, and even the edits and rewrites and—I’m not kidding, the fan-made _walkthrough_ for it—are basically impossible to understand.” He rubs a servo over his face. “Not to mention it’s only ever been attempted by medics a couple dozen times since, and he’s the _only_ one to ever complete it successfully.”

“So…you _don’t_ know what to do.”

“You can at least _try,_ ” Arcee reasons, “come on, you’re the best there is. You’re certainly the best suited among _us._ I mean, not to put _too_ fine a point on it, but you’re kind of our last hope here.”

He scoffs. “ _Try?_ What is _trying_ going to do? This isn’t a marathon for charity, it’s a highly precise surgery inside the patient’s spark casing. If I fail, Optimus could _die._ I can’t just _do my best,_ and hope for second place!” He crosses his arms over his chassis. “What I really _need,_ ” he says, after a moment, “is help. I need Pharma. I don’t trust myself to do this.”

“Pharma? Is that the guy who wrote the paper?”

“You don’t know Pharma?” Ratchet raises a brow ridge under his helmet. “Wrote a dissertation on cybercrosis? Invented the treatment for stage three cosmic rust breakouts? Formulated the now-defunct evacuation processes for plague outbreaks on deep-space vessels?”

Arcee and Bulkhead blink expectantly. “No,” Arcee says. “Should we?”

“We’re not really big _readers,_ ” Bulkhead adds, “especially that academy stuff. I mean, I’ve downloaded an action strip or two for pre-recharge before, back when the Wreckers were traveling without a bridge, but it’s…been a while.”

Ratchet scoffs and shakes his head. “Then maybe _this_ will ring a bell,” he says, “Pharma was the head medic on the Delphi outpost during the plague outbreak.” He glances nervously towards the kids. Bumblebee is leaned all the way over the railing, whirring incessantly about Raf’s hard-earned victory. Not one of them seems to be paying attention. “He’s a war criminal, and a lunatic to boot. It wouldn’t be safe to bring him here—not to earth, and _especially_ not into our base.”

“Decepticon?”

“No, an autobot—but a fanatic. It came out that he was routinely letting ‘cons die on his table, and…worse.” He shakes his head. “I’m not worried about him doing anything in an operating theater, especially not to Optimus—that’s not my concern. It would just be awkward to get in contact with him, given that he’s currently serving time.” He clears his throat. “Not to mention embarrassing.”

“Wait, I think I do know this guy,” Bulkhead says, holding up a finger, “Wheeljack spent some time on the brig he was on. Said they had him running the med bay anyway. Called him a creep, and you don’t wanna know what else. Said he never shut up.”

“That’s the guy,” Ratchet says. “I’ve never heard him _willingly_ stop talking. Not even at gunpoint.” He pauses, blinks. “Wait, you know where he’s serving?”

“Sure, he’s in Ultra Magnus’ custody,” he says, “Wheeljack _loves_ complaining about that guy, takes any chance he can get. Do you _not_ know where he’s serving?”

Ratchet rolls his eyes. He has the decency to look embarrassed. “We haven’t exactly been in touch,” he grumbles. “I was planning on sending out a general request beacon—see if there were any medics this side of the galaxy who had experience with the procedure.”

Arcee crosses her arms. “And just _hope_ that it finds the right ship?”

“ _That_ was all I had to go on,” he says, “now that I know he’s in Ultra Magnus’ jurisdiction, I can send it directly to his ship. And…release it generally, as well. So he doesn’t know I’m looking for him.”

She furrows her brow. “Why does _that_ matter?”

“It doesn’t, really,” he sighs, “he’s just _insufferable._ ”

 

 

Ratchet sends out a plain ASCII text file. Ultra Magnus’ warship returns a three-hour long video.

“ _Ratchet, how wonderful to hear from you again,”_ Pharma says, smiling, centerscreen. His room has been carefully organized behind him, and he’s visible from the waist up, giving the impression that he’s behind a clean desk. He has _definitely_ buffed his armor out. “ _Although, I didn’t realize you were still on that miserable dirtball! How_ is _the frontline? Are you having fun? Are you getting all that aggression out of your system? Sounds like you’re having a pretty tough time of it._

_“Nice job sending this out as a general beacon. I’m sure you’re trying to look very diplomatic, very ‘any help we can get will help our cause’, very proper, Ratchet, but we both know_ why _you sent it out. And we both know you sent it to_ me. _I’m sure you’ve had answers pouring in all week, your favorite students leaping at the opportunity to help old teach’—I bet First Aid’s already sent you some overeager response about how he’s never_ performed _the operation_ himself, _but here’s_ aaaaall _the research he could find on the subject for you to read—all written by_ me, _of course.”_

Ratchet scowls up at the video screen. “Does this thing have a fast-forward button?” He grumbles. 

“ _You know, I’ve never known you to ask for help,”_ Pharma goes on, as Ratchet pokes through the video control system, “ _back in medical school, among all our friends—don’t you remember our extensive and admittedly florid history? I do—when you were struggling with something, you always framed it like someone_ else’s _problem. ‘I’m putting together a study group for people who can’t get all the secondary bivalve systems down’, or ‘I need to get together with Red Alert to make sure she’s got the hang of energon tube-lining’, or ‘Thunderclash just broke up with his matesprit, so I’m taking him to the bar for the evening, sorry, can’t make our scheduled dinner’, I mean—what happened to you, senior year? Huh? What happened to the party ambulance I once knew?_

_“Of course, this_ is _how I always dreamed I would meet you again. You, on your knees, literally crawling to me for help. I don’t_ hear _the scuffing on the concrete, but maybe I can get that if I come visit._

_“Now, enough chit-chat. Down to medical procedures. The long and short of it is, you can’t do this yourself. No one can, save my magic hands.You’re_ going _to have to invite me. And doesn’t that sound like fun? The two top graduates of our school, practically soul-bound best friends, back together for one last romp? And in the chest of our glorious leader, no less! You know, I was never really_ into _the whole_ Primacy _thing, but—zzzzzzzzzzzzzz—“_

“Found it,” Ratchet says, smiling pleasantly as the sound of Pharma’s stupid rocket-mouth is replaced by the whine of high-speed compression.

At his left elbow, Arcee raises a brow ridge. “Does he always talk this much?”

“ _O-ho-ho_ yes. He’s non-stop.”

“And is there…any risk we’re missing important information?”

“Absolutely not. If he’s the Pharma I know, he’ll load whatever requests he has right at the end,” he says, “he thinks that’ll force me to watch the whole thing. I do wonder—it’s weird that he sent this as a video file.”

“There’s no editing,” Arcee adds, “it looks like he did this all in one take.”

“I just mean, a video file is such a large amount of data to send over such a large distance,” Ratchet says, “it shouldn’t have transmitted back so fast. Unless they’re already close-by. It just would have been much easier to write a text file back. Why waste the bandwidth?” He taps the console with one finger. “Why waste the _time?_ ”

Arcee shrugs. “Hey, _you_ said he was nuts,” she reminds him. “He’s probably just trying to get under your plating. Look, he’s pacing around the room and showing off and who _knows_ what else—no one does that unless they think they’ve got something to prove.”

Ratchet can’t help it—he raises a brow ridge, gives her an appraising look. “Good eye,” he says, “Pharma always shuts up during an operation in a theater where he’s alone. He talks when he’s got a captive audience, because he knows it annoys me. Er—mechs. He knows it annoys mechs.”

She glances back. “He said you two were at the university together,” she says. “Were you friends?”

He snorts. “ _Hardly,_ ” he replies, opens his mouth to elaborate—pauses—no, too complicated. “We were more—“

“Wait,” she interrupts, and he takes it as no small relief, “he just got out a whiteboard. Play it.”

“We’re only an hour in,” he mutters, but taps the play button anyway, “what is he even talking about?”

“ _You know, when I first named the disease your_ Optimus _has, if we’re calling him that now, I wanted to strike the right tone of eloquence and understated modesty. See, that’s what fluency in Old Cybertronian will get you._ ” He strokes a hand over his neck, possibly an old habit, but more likely a way to draw watching eyes towards the (admittedly elegant) cabling. “ _You know, the philosopher D0-j1nz described a plateless insecticon as—zzzzzzzzz—“_

“Nope,” Ratchet says, “nothing.”

“Wait a klik, I want to see where he was going with that,” Arcee says—and then, when Ratchet gives her a disbelieving look, “I was _joking_. Sheesh. You’re a tough crowd, bossbot.”

He snorts. “Well, I aim to displease,” he says. “Bossbot?”

She shrugs. “You’re the only one _Optimus_ ever listens to,” she says. “And the only one who’s always ready to take over when things go wrong. You know, you might be able to click forward on the scrollbar and _skip_ this stuff. Is that a exoskeletal system on a post? Why is he—who lets him have all this stuff? He’s in a _prison cell._ ”

“I—oh,” Ratchet mumbles. He feels blindsided. “There’s not a cursor…arrow keys, maybe?”

It’s not that—it’s not that Ratchet doesn’t _know_ he’s appreciated. Or needed. Bulkhead in particular is usually vocal to the other members of the team about his faith in Ratchet’s academic abilities, and Optimus is quick to remind any member of the team of any _other_ team member’s virtues when things start getting contentious, as well as being quick to flattery in the privacy of their relationship. The frustration the younger mechs often direct toward him is, in a very _roundabout_ sort of way, an implicit admission that they trust and rely on him, and _expect_ that he’ll succeed.

But people don’t just _tell_ him that. They’d definitely rather complain about Optimus’ absence than praise his leadership skills. And Arcee only tells people they’ve done a good job when the alternative is apologizing for doubting them. Even if it _was_ as understated as she always is, her comment comes out of left field.

He taps forward—taps forward—“here,” he says, “he’s back at the desk.”

“ _—Is all a long way of telling you it’ll be a long trip, and I’ll be very_ lonely,” Pharma is saying, “ _I’ll come, but I have some requests, which you’ll follow if you want my help. First, I want you to petition Ultra Magnus—I want a quarter-reduction on my sentence and an earlier parole hearing proportionate to the change. Secondly, I want you to be in charge of transport. You come up and meet me on this ship, and you take the pod back to Earth. I don’t want to be tricked. I’m not going to get there and find out some loser stamped your name on the bottom of an email, it had better be_ you. _Third, I don’t care about how stiff I get in the brig, but when I’m doing surgery, my wings_ cannot _be bound. It throws off my balance, and it’s disorienting. Don’t worry—_ “ He smiles, and exaggeratedly crosses two fingers in front of the camera. “ _—I_ promise _not to fly away._

_“Fourth, and finally, every decepticon who’s been to your miserable little heap of dirt and bugs says the organic life on the planet is squishy. Dropkick says they pop when you squeeze them. That’s_ hilarious. _And_ disgusting. _I want one. Get me one, so I can pop it. Ratchet? Ratchet. This is my greatest wish. You_ must do this _for me._

_“Drop me a line, slick. I’ll see you soon.”_

The feed goes dead, and a pop-up asks if Ratchet would like to _watch the video again [Y/N]?_ He sighs and turns the monitor off.

“That was pleasant,” Arcee says after a moment, “what the scrap was all that stuff about squishing an organic?”

“I’m _pretty_ sure he was joking,” Ratchet grumbles, “probably. We’re obviously not doing that. But everything else, I think, was real. Reasonable.”

“Nothing on that list was reasonable.”

“I mean—reasonable in that it makes sense that he would _ask_ for it. His sentence is so long, hacking a quarter off the end of it probably couldn’t do any harm. Probably.” He shakes his head. “Convincing Ultra Magnus is going to be hard. But—he has to listen, he let Pharma send the video back in the first place. And it’s Optimus we’re talking about here.”

“How are you going to get in contact with him?”

“That video file sent so quickly, I have to assume they’re in the same solar system. I’ll send him a beacon requesting a meeting—I think this might get ugly if I try to send it over text. If all goes well, I’ll be back with Pharma in tow.”

“Will it be safe?” Arcee looks up at him searchingly. “You said he was a war criminal. And a lunatic. I don’t know what kind of history you have with this guy, but he seems like a real piece of work.”

“Pharma would never do anything that would put his own reputation as a doctor in the gutter. He’s crazy, but he’s a good medic and he won’t let anyone forget it. Optimus will be fine.”

“I wasn’t talking about Optimus. I was talking about you.” 

He blinks, turns to look at her head-on. She’s never been the most subtle of the mechs—for someone who talks so rarely, she wears her emotions totally without disguise. There’s steady, stern control in her face, but under that—under that, he can see the honest concern. Worry. He softens.

“Pharma’s not going to do anything to me,” he says, with an assurance he used to feel, “he thinks I’m his ‘nemesis’. His greatest wish is for me to tell him—admit to him—that I think he’s ‘better than me’. He won’t kill me before he gets that.”

Some of the tension goes out of her shoulders. “Okay,” she says, “you would know better than me.”

“That said, I don’t want anyone on this team exposed to him if we can help it. He _might_ have been joking about the organics, but I don’t want him to see the kids. Or Fowler. Or our team. He may be more dangerous than I remember, but even in the best-case scenario, he still knows _wa-a-ay_ more about what I got up to in college than I ever want any of you to know about. I’ve got my reputation to protect, here.”

“You know, I was _going_ to ask about that ‘party ambulance’ thing,” she says, smiling, “was that a joke, or were you fun once?”

“I have never been ‘fun’ in my life, and you may quote me on that.”

“Got it. ‘Here lies Ratchet—never had fun in his life’. Very somber.”

“Why am I dead in this scenario?”

Arcee laughs and shakes her head. “You just call Ultra Magnus, or whatever you’ve got to do,” she says, “maybe Wheeljack could give you a ride. I’ll talk to Bulkhead about getting the kids out of here. How long do we need to be evacuated, do you think?”

“From my return? Three days, tops. Arrival, procedure, departure. I want him in and out as fast as possible.”

She nods, and turns to leave without preamble. Another thing Ratchet likes about her company—quiet, efficient, unhurried. He whips up another text file in his processor and links it into the computer for better transmission.

The problem with Pharma’s presence—the reason for his hurry—isn’t as shallow as being afraid of him, or annoyed by him, or just wanting Optimus back as quickly as possible. But Ratchet isn’t ready to have a conversation about that with any of the young bots, Arcee included. He drafts up another text file, shoots it off to Wheeljack. Pharma _is_ infuriating—the frustration of skipping through three hours of pointless context has brought that to the forefront of his mind in a way that he thought he’d forgotten. Arcee is right—he _is_ trying to get under Ratchet’s plating. He’s _trying_ to be annoying.

And it worries Ratchet to realize how much he misses it.

 

 

Wheeljack actually _does_ agree to give him a ride, which is a surprise, given how detached from the rest of the group he typically is, and how much he purportedly _hates_ Ultra Magnus, and his ship, and his crew, and everything else. For once, Ratchet doesn’t make any pretense about his gratitude.

“We really do appreciate it,” he says, settling into the passenger seat. “All of us. _I_ appreciate it.”

“It’s not like I’m going out of my way,” Wheeljack replies. “Besides, I owe Bulkhead a few solids, and I need to get back out there and stretch my legs a little. Kinda figured I’d be transporting him.”

“Sorry to disappoint,” he says. “Pharma doesn’t trust that I sent the beacon, and he won’t come unless he knows it’s me. Besides, it gives Arcee and Bulkhead time to clear the base.”

“Full evacuation? You’re not taking any chances.” He raises an eyebrow, and infuriatingly, smirks. “You sure you’re checked out to be getting this guy by yourself, doc?”

“Please don’t call me ‘doc’.”

“Whatever you say, sunshine.”

Ratchet snorts. “If you’re trying to irritate me,” he says, “you should know we’re on the way to pick up the _biggest_ pain in my aft who’s ever walked across the face of Cybertron. I don’t really need a warm-up.”

Wheeljack gives him a look—it clearly means _something,_ but Ratchet doesn’t know him well enough to discern what it’s supposed to be. His smirk is gone, replaced by a humorlessly thin line.

They don’t speak again until they’re out of the atmosphere, and the course is on autopilot. “So Bulkhead says you have a history with this guy,” he says, and Ratchet gets the odd feeling that he’s being felt out, that Wheeljack’s trying to map something onto him that he won’t just _say_ out loud. Which is weird enough on its own—he’s never known him to dance around _anything_. “You guys go to school together, or…?”

“Hm? Oh, yes,” Ratchet says, distractedly, “we started the academy at the same year. We were contemporaries on Cybertron for a…long time, before the war. Rival practices in the same city, that kind of thing.”

Wheeljack doesn’t look at him when he says “were you two…close?”

Ah.

“Define ‘close’,” Ratchet says, “because if you’re asking what I think you’re asking, you should know better.”

“You afraid?”

“ _Of_ you? No,” he says. “For you, if you put your head in places it doesn’t belong. Especially with Pharma in tow.”

Wheeljack is quiet. He’s quiet for the rest of the trip. Ratchet settles into his seat after about an hour and goes into recharge. He hasn’t managed to get into a berth since the paralysis set in on his conjunx—too much time in the medibay, too much time half-conscious over old datapads and badly downloaded files—and the rumble of the ship is comforting. There’s something half-remembered about space travel, from early in the war when they thought it was a skirmish that might take a few years. A few dozen, maybe.

It reminds him of Orion Pax, and he drifts.

Ultra Magnus has more or less agreed to all their terms, and something in his demeanor when they dock onto his ship makes Ratchet think he’s anxious to have Pharma off for a while. Longer pauses in his typically clipped speech pattern. A strange way of glancing over his shoulder.

“Obviously, we can’t acquiesce to all of his demands,” Magnus tells him, leading him toward the brig, “he’ll have his earlier parole hearing, but we’re only shortening his sentence by an eighth of its original time. We’re…telling him we’re shortening it by a quarter.” He clears his throat. “With respect to you and the safety of your team, we will not tell him until he has performed the surgery and returned to our ship, and he will be informed that you were unaware.”

Ratchet wants to ask why Magnus is telling him at all, but figures it’s just that confession soothes the spark, and Magnus has the anxious nerves of someone who is rarely—if ever—expected to lie. He lets it slide. “I only need three days,” he says, “two for transport, there and back, and one for the surgery itself.”

“Appreciated,” he says. Then, “do you know why he requested you as his transport?”

“We have a history.”

“My apologies. I didn’t realize it was so personal.” 

They come to a halt outside the brig. Ultra Magnus pauses, sends something over his commlink, and starts punching in a keycode for the door. “I apologize for exposing you to Pharma like this,” he says, “I had hoped him hearing your voice would be sufficient, perhaps through the door, and then we could vacate you to a safe distance before releasing him…”

“Pharma isn’t _quite_ so dangerous as you seem to think,” Ratchet says, trying not to scoff, “let him see me, and then we’ll move him to the cell on our transport.”

Magnus might have had something to say about that—Ratchet never finds out, because at that moment, the centrifugal door slides open in every direction, and out walks Pharma. Or, more accurately, out…drags Pharma.

He’s caught between two huge tankformers, one arm tightly bound in each of theirs, being hauled backwards behind them and writhing like an unruly pet. His wrists are cuffed. His wings are cuffed. His ankles, bolted together, drag impotently behind his half-supported weight as he kinks his knees and kicks.

As he glances up, Ratchet’s gaze catches on the blue gleam of his optics, the haughty tilt of his mouth.

“Ratchet,” Pharma says, the fight in his shoulders giving way as he goes loose, resistance draining out of his limbs. He looks like he’s smiling. “How’s tricks?”

And then he’s gone, from one end of the hallway to another. Ratchet watches the second breach door close behind him. “Well, there he goes,” he says. “Do you require my assistance, or will your mechs be able to get him on Wheeljack’s ship themselves?”

“I have confidence in my soldiers’ abilities,” Ultra Magnus says with a sniff, “less so in your pilot’s. Should you so require, our ship will hang close. We can send our own transport to retrieve Pharma if Wheeljack proves…unreliable.”

“Thank you, Ultra Magnus. I will take it under advisement.”

Ultra Magnus shifts his weight slightly, sets the pace and direction as they head back towards the dock. “Are you sure you’ll be alright, doctor?” He asks. “Pharma is a volatile prisoner. I’m concerned that transport—“

“ _Thank you,_ Ultra Magnus,” Ratchet interrupts, “I appreciate your concern. But our highest priority is the wellness of Optimus Prime, and any danger I face must be weighed against our cause. Frankly, there are a _lot_ of bots who are being _concerned_ with my well-being. I _know_ Pharma is dangerous. I am intimately familiar with his particular brand of sociopathy.” He crosses his arms. “To answer your question, no. I am _not_ sure that I’ll be alright. But I _am_ sure that there is no mech more suited to survive an encounter with Pharma than I.”

 

 

“Cute speech,” Pharma says disinterestedly as Ratchet steps into the makeshift brig at the back of Wheeljack’s ship, “you plan it yourself?”

“Contrary to popular belief, Pharma, not _everyone_ spends their whole lives planning out what they’re going to say,” Ratchet replies, “just you.”

“Why are you back here, anyway? I figured you’d be up front, flirting with your new boytoy—or did you want to wait until after Prime’s engines are cooling to get back on the grind? Oh, no, I’m sorry—your ‘highest priority is the wellness of Optimus Prime’, isn’t it?”

“How did you overhear _any_ of that?” Despite himself, Ratchet’s kind of impressed. “You must have been half the ship away from us by that time.”

“Oh, I implanted a bug in Ultra Magnus’ armor _ages_ ago,” Pharma says, shrugging like it’s the easiest thing in the world, “I was just curious, you know? I wanted to see if he’s like that _all_ the time. He is. Day _and_ night. Not that there’s much of a caveat to—“

“I don’t need to hear whatever gross thing you’re about to—“

“He doesn’t fuck, is all I’m saying,” Pharma says, “I mean, I thought he might loosen up in the berth, but there’s no _reason_ for him to. Do you think he has a private life?”

“I think this is the grossest thing you’ve ever tried to discuss with me, and I’m not playing ball,” Ratchet snaps, more than a little embarrassed, “I’m just here to make sure you’re not planning anything. We’ve had our differences in the past, but you’ve always worked for the same cause as us.”

“The cause,” Pharma says miserably, “I’m sick and tired of hearing about the autobot cause. Get off your _ivory tower_ or _high horse_ or whatever other jargon you’ve picked up from your squishy little organic friends and give me a break. Like you’re the only autobot aboard this ship? Like you’re the most faithful?”

“If you’re talking about yourself, you’re about to be in a world of pain,” Ratchet replies. He crosses his arms. There’s an unpleasant lurching in his tank that he hasn’t felt since the last time he was trapped in a room with Pharma, the queasy sickrush of tension that precedes any good dressing-down. The wall between them, separating the holding cell from the visiting hallway, does nothing to quell his discomfort—Pharma never needed to get physical to wreck him.

“Me? Oh, Primus, no, I’m not stupid,” he says, and laughs humorlessly, “not on a ship transporting us to your _Optimus Prime,_ of all bots. But I’m certainly more faithful to the cause than you.”

Ratchet snorts. “Right, because fighting on the bleeding edge of the warfront shows a lack of moral fortitude that only holing up in some distant snow-driven hovel can really provide. Sorry, I must’ve forgotten.”

“At least _I_ would never help a _‘con,_ ” he snaps back, spitting the word out like it hurts to keep it in his mouth. “Don’t think I’ve forgotten Deadlock, Ratchet. Just because everybody else is too busy sucking your spike to admit you have a flaw—“

“ _Primus,_ Pharma, he was a _kid,_ ” Ratchet says, shaking his head derisively, “we didn’t know what he was going to do! We barely knew what he’d done. I did my job.”

“We knew _one_ thing,” Pharma hisses, “we knew what side he was on! Insignia blazed on his chassis, and you picked him up and hooked him up to all your little gadgets and gizmos and gave him a jump you should’ve known he didn’t deserve.”

“So that’s it? ‘He was a decepticon, so leave him to bleed out on the floor’? Kill a _kid_ over some misplaced sense of nobility?”

“It’s what I would’ve done!” Pharma snaps. “It’s what _any_ self-respecting bot would’ve done! It doesn’t have to look intentional, it doesn’t have to be pretty. You make a hard choice! You find something else to do, someone else to save.” His wings flutter aggravatedly against their confines. “Your servos can only ever save so many bots. You just choose which ones are the right ones! _Preferably_ the ones on your _own side!_ That’s what I mean when I say you have no faith in the cause, Ratchet. It was never about taking a side. You just wanted to do what you’ve always done—helping everyone, healing the enemy, one of your nobler failures—right in the sightline of your precious _old friend._ I wonder, did you take this job because it was on…what was it, you said? It was awfully pretty—“ he snaps his fingers, throws on a painfully false expression of sudden enlightenment. “That’s right, ‘the bleeding edge of the warfront’—or did you come because Orion Pax asked you to?”

It’s a kick in the teeth, mostly because it feels a little too _close_ for Ratchet’s comfort. From the dizzyingly smug smile on Pharma’s face, the hurt must be evident.

“I thought you were berating me for giving a Decepticon a second chance,” he says after a moment. It’s an evasion, an obvious one, and a little victory for Pharma that he’s bitter to give away. “Maybe Deadlock didn’t change, but some of them can. One of your own used to fight with them.”

Pharma scoffs. “Ambulon? Please. He isn’t on my team because he _realized_ in his _spark of sparks_ that the Decepticons were wrong and the Autobots are right! He’s on my team because all he cares about is _winning_ , and his old team could no longer provide! He knows nothing. He’s lost nothing.”

“Don’t talk about him like you know him,” Ratchet chides, though he’s got very little in the way of warm feelings for the medic himself, “Ambulon’s a combiner—he lost his gestalt to Megatron’s machinations. He’s been tricked and mistreated with the rest of them.”

“How curious,” Pharma says, raising a finger to his lips as though he intends to bite it, “you really think he’s changed. What an ugly little lie to tell yourself. Did you really think _Deadlock_ could change? Or did you just want to be important to someone, a savior in the eyes of someone you could live without?” His glossa darts out, runs the length of his digit. “Did you think he’d look up at you like Orion Pax never did, resting in your saving arms? See the light, change his ways? Kiss your badge? Follow you? Love you? Bury you?”

“I saved him because it was the right thing to do,” Ratchet snaps, but Pharma is already heading him off, wheeling on the spot, wings scraping at the narrow walls.

“ _You did it_ because you’re a _coward,_ ” he hisses, “because you couldn’t bear to make the hard choice your _cause_ deserved! Too scared of blood on your hands, too scared that leaving him would’ve been the wrong choice to somebody else, looking in. Too scared to look a ‘con in the eye and let yourself see the monster looking back, and guess what? Maybe there’s no blood on your hands, but there sure has been blood on his since you fixed him up. Because it was the _right thing to do,_ is that right?”

“Hard choices,” Ratchet spits back, furious, “hard choices? I know about your hard choices, Pharma. I know about Delphi. You want to talk about ‘hard choices’?”

Pharma pauses. His eyes flit towards the walls of his confinement. “You don’t know what happened on Delphi,” he says, bitter, straining with reserve.

“ _Everyone_ knows what happened on Delphi,” he says, “why do you think you’re in here?”

“So quick to judge, you would’ve done the same—I was protecting my students—“

“ _You_ were protecting _yourself,_ and you know it,” Ratchet says, voice solidifying with a righteous tempest, firmly on the upswing of the fight, “you were doing what you’ve _always_ done when the going got tough. You make—what did you call them? ‘Hard choices’? Don’t think you can lie to me. I know what you are.” He leans in. “And I know _you_ know what you are, too. And I _know_ what knowing it _does_ to you. And I know you _deserve_ it.”

Pharma stares back at him, silent. His face is contorted in a mask of fury, but his eyes glimmer with terror. The mix hits Ratchet in the stomach with a rush of adrenaline and arousal and superior, victorious pride.

“I have work to do. I assume you can keep yourself occupied in here.” With a surge of smug leisure that he hasn’t felt for eons, Ratchet traces a lazy finger along the metal struts of the cage, then drops his hand to his side and steps back, turning to go. “For the record, Pharma,” he adds, almost over his shoulder, “no one who’s lived a life like yours should make the mistake of calling _anyone else_ a coward.”

He can feel those eyes on his back as he retreats. His engine runs hot.

 

 

“You are _not_ supposed to be here,” Ratchet snaps. Arcee crosses her arms and leans against the groundbridge console. They’re standing near the medibay, and Ratchet has been prepping tech all morning. Arcee has only _just now_ made her presence known. “I told you to evacuate!”

“Technically, you told me to evacuate everyone _else,_ ” she says, helpfully. “I sent the kids on a ‘vacation’ with Bulkhead and Wheeljack. In a place called Hawaii. They seemed happy to go. Besides, even if you specifically told me to leave, I would’ve just ignored you. You _cannot_ be with a criminal like this, _by yourself,_ for three days! What would Optimus say if something happened to you?” She throws a hand in the air. “That’s right! He wouldn’t say _anything!_ Because without you, he doesn’t stand a chance. I’m staying, and I’m watching your back.”

Ratchet opens his mouth, then closes it. “I…don’t know if I should be flattered or insulted,” he admits after a moment.

“Insulted,” she says, “I’m saying you can’t take care of yourself, and that you’re an idiot for assuming we don’t care about you.”

“Definitely getting some backhanded compliments right now.”

“I’m going to bring him in here,” Arcee says, “is there anything else you need to do in prep before we start?”

“You’re going to have to uncuff him,” Ratchet concedes, “entirely. He requested having his wings free for surgery. I’m alright. It’s as sterile as it’s going to get in here.”

Arcee transforms her hands and heads back towards their makeshift cellblock without another word. He’s been keeping Pharma in one of the relic cases in the back of the compound. The air ventilates normally, the phase shifter can be used to drop energon through the door if needed, and Ratchet had moved Optimus’ berth in for Pharma to rest on when not working, figuring that their esteemed leader, unconscious and stuck in the medibay, probably wouldn’t need it.

The monitor beeps at him, and Ratchet looks down at his patient’s frame. After a moment, he takes Optimus’ hand in his.

“You better pull through,” he murmurs, running his thumb over the divots of metal, pistons and servos that make up his conjunx’s hand, “if you leave me alone after all this, I’ll dive right into the well of Allsparks just to make you pay.”

Optimus’ face doesn’t so much as twitch. The monitor, recording his vitals, chimes happily that everything is holding steady. Ratchet sets his hand back down beside him and ex-vents, turns to inspect his instruments for the umpteenth time.

“Well, this is _cute,_ ” Pharma says, his slimy voice cutting through Ratchet’s concentration like a hot knife. He whirls around to see the jet walking calmly, unbound, towards him—with two of Arcee’s blasters pointed up against his back. “Very proto-medical. Very _rural._ Feral, one might even call it. Should we get started?”

“I thought you’d never ask,” Ratchet says, waving a hand at the other side of the berth, “please. Show me how you do it in prison.”

“Ooh, I thought _you’d_ never ask,” Pharma says with a wink, filling the empty space at Optimus’ right, “before we get too down and dirty in it, though, think you could call your little guard off? The guns on my back are starting to _chafe,_ and I thought I was coming for some alone time with _you._ ”

“Arcee’s not my guard, and she’s not little,” Ratchet replies. “She stays.”

“I don’t operate well under pressure. At least give me a little venting room.”

Ratchet glances at Arcee, who catches his eye, nods. “It’s okay, Arcee,” he says, “I’ve got this.”

She takes a step back, lowers her arms, transforms her blasters back into hands. :I’m not letting my guard down,: she comms him privately, as he turns back to his equipment table, :just staying out of the way. Don’t worry. I’ve still got your back.:

He doesn’t answer her directly, but he nods before he turns his scanner on. “I’m waiting to follow your lead, Pharma,” he says, “you’re the expert. Show me how hard it is.”

“The funny thing is, it isn’t even a particularly difficult procedure,” Pharma replies, “open his chest cavity, please. I need to see his spark chamber and recalibrate my hands accordingly.”

A series of taps, and the thick armor plates on Optimus’ chest slide open. Instinctively, Ratchet checks that the stasis pulse is at the right frequency. “It’s within the spark chamber, isn’t it?”

“Common misconception. We actually have to go underneath.” Pharma flexes his hands, runs a finger around the curve of the chamber, then begins fiddling with his wrists. “ _Parsaeterna necius_ is caused by a cabling disconnect in the main line between the processor and the auxiliary amp mainframe.”

“Why didn’t that show up on the scan?” Ratchet runs another test with the scanner, as if to prove his point. “It’s only showing clear signals. Something like that should’ve pinged right away, even on rudimentary tech.”

“Since it’s the aux jack, the proximity between the cable and plug is creating interference,” Pharma says, “pass me a scalpel, three-eighths. I need to cut away the rubber so you can see. The interference—thank you,” he says, as Ratchet passes him the blade, “the interference is feedbacking into the spark, and they’re paralyzing each other. The spark’s trying to neutralize the charge, but it’s just putting the processor out of business. Here, look. Come around this side.”

Curious despite himself, Ratchet moves around to Pharma’s side of the berth, follows his finger’s path. Sure enough, there’s an odd bump under the rubber jacket. “I don’t believe it,” he mutters, more to himself than to Pharma. It’s _tiny._ How Pharma ever found something like this at all, much less work out why it affected the system the way it did—

“It’s awfully close,” Pharma mutters, equally to himself. Their shoulders scrape together as he leans in, engaging the scope on his optic, “it must be creating a lot of static. I’m surprised you managed to diagnose this, you shouldn’t be getting any of the normal signs.”

“How do we fix it?”

“Simple: we reconnect the jack. Preferably with small hands—there we go,” he says, wriggling something loose in his wrist. Ratchet can only look on, shocked, as the plating and chaff of Pharma’s fingers reorganize at the base of his hand, stripping away from appendages until nothing is left but a clamp at the end of copper wire filament, grotesquely protruding from his hand. “The difference between you and me—well, the difference between myself and _everyone else,_ to be fair—is that I’m not afraid of pain if it’ll help me get _in_ there.”

“That’s disgusting,” Ratchet breathes, fascinated, “how do you have any control without pistons?”

“Electropulse command,” Pharma says, bending the wire back and forth like a coiling finger demonstratively, “that’s the tech of the future. Not surprised you haven’t heard, all the way out here. I’m going to need your hands in a moment—I’ve got to measure the angle to make sure I’ll be able to fit the grip in. Turn the patient’s head to the side.”

“What for?” Ratchet asks, already moving around Pharma to do it. Optimus’ faceplate is soft and pliable in his hands. His touch lingers slightly longer than it needs to.

“When we reconnect the jack, it’s possible that his voice box is going to reboot,” Pharma says, not looking his way. “It’s in the throat, and about 70% of the time, the circuit shorts and releases oil and lubricant in the intake cavity. The last thing we need is for him to start choking on his own spill, or for it to upset the live charge further down. If his head is to the side, it’ll just empty on the berth, where it can be cleaned up and refilled.”

Ratchet considers this, then reaches down and opens Optimus’ mouth. His jaw hangs loose.

“You ready? I need your hands,” Pharma says, “I’m lucky you’ve got a steady pair. I need you to lift his spark casing _here_ —“ he gestures with a scrape of wire against the case— “and with your other hand, keep the rubber peeled back. I’ll be holding the other side with my off-hand. I need absolute silence.”

“I’m not the one who typically talks during procedures,” Ratchet says, getting his hands in position. “Ready?”

Pharma nods. Ratchet lifts.

The clamp at the end of Pharma’s stripped finger slides forward, carefully not touching the wires on either side of it. It opens wide, wraps around the jack, and grips it shut. With a slight hiss and a wince, Pharma shifts his hand just slightly—

The jack connects to its plug with a spark of charge, burning Ratchet’s barely-involved fingers and making Pharma gasp in pain. His hand retracts quickly, releasing the rubber as he goes. “Grab the molder,” Ratchet says, “I’ll close the jacket up. You alright?”

“Fucking stings,” Pharma hisses, fiddling with his wrist, “every time—the copper’s a conductor— _fuck,_ that hurts. Here.” With his unexposed hand, he passes a small tool into Ratchet’s hand. Over his skeletal copper wires, the chaff and plating of his fingers begins to refigure back into its original elegant shape.

“Is that it?” Arcee says, and both medics startle. Ratchet, for his own part, had almost forgotten she was there. “Optimus is okay?”

There’s a fizzle—Optimus’ frame shudders under Ratchet’s hands, and then there’s an awful slick of oil and mess pouring out from between his lips as he coughs. He fumbles to hold his spark steady, glances back up at the stasis charge. Holding steady. “No pain,” he mutters, “he’s not waking up.”

“He shouldn’t, if he’s on drip. Keep him in manual stasis for another few hours,” Pharma says, “he needs time to recover. Your scanner’s going to give you some confused readings for the next hour or so. Keep a hand on him.”

“I will. Thank you.” The rubber starts to melt back together as Ratchet applies careful heat. His vision is focused, but not so much that he can’t feel Pharma’s eyes hot on his back.

“So,” Pharma says after a moment, more jovially than he deserves to, “who’s the better doctor? Admit it, Ratchet. Who’s the best?”

Ratchet glares back up. “Really?” He snaps. “That’s what this is about to you?”

“What _else_ would it be about?” Pharma sneers. “The _cause?_ You think I still care about all that? This has _always_ been about _us._ Why else would I let you call me down to this filthy planet? Come on. Say it!”

“You’re a _child,_ ” Ratchet snarls. He can hear the clacking of Arcee’s transformation seams behind them. “I can’t believe this. After all this time, and you’re such a _child!_ Do you really expect me to—“

“ _Say it,_ ” Pharma repeats, and with the clanking of transformation seams, shifts his unstripped hand into a buzz-saw, roaring just over Optimus’ throat.

“Put your hands on the ground,” Arcee yells, sweeping up behind Pharma, but he’s brandishing the blade and scowling back at her.

“One step closer and I offline your Prime for good,” he snaps, “this is between Ratchet and me! Keep your distance, _cadet._ ”

“Put the blade back,” Ratchet tries, but Pharma’s eyes are on him again.

“Make me, big bot,” he says, “admit it! Admit I’m better than you are! That’s all I want, Ratchet. _Give it_ to me.”

“Ratch,” Arcee says, nerves riding her voice, “just do what he says.”

Ratchet stares right back at Pharma. “What, and lie?” he says, and watches Pharma’s scowl contort. “So you invented a procedure. So what? _Everyone’s_ done that. Am I supposed to praise you for being so bad at writing a paper that I had to call you in to explain something so _basic_ —“

“Ratch, what are you _doing—_ “

“—Even First Aid couldn’t figure it out? He wrote a walkthrough for _reading your paper_ and it’s still illegible! You couldn’t—“

He stops talking at that point, because that’s when Pharma hits him.

It’s not a bad punch, all told. The rotary blade retracts in as he’s moving it through the air, returning to its root form as a fist just in time to lay Ratchet out with a right hook. It throws him back through his table of equipment, and he hits the ground in a tinkling crash as his metal implements strike the concrete in a savage rain. Before he can recalibrate, Pharma is coming down after him, dropping his weight into Ratchet’s tank and tearing at his plating, yowling obscenities like a feral turbofox. He hisses, tries to wriggle away—something pulls loose—

And then Pharma is being hauled off him, Arcee dragging him back physically and firing a warning shot off just past his audial. It shoots straight up and scorches the rock of their ceiling. She’s yelling at him, cursing something, but as Ratchet struggles to get up on his elbows, she’s got him in both arms. “Close Optimus up,” she yells, “whatever doctor stuff—ow!—you’re on your own!”

As she drags Pharma down the hallway and out of sight, blasters trained on his back and unfriendly threats falling on his head, Ratchet slowly gets to his feet, aching, and takes Optimus’ hand in his own.

 

 

Arcee’s back in less than fifteen minutes, which is about enough time for Ratchet to check Optimus’ vitals, close him up, and get his own head back on his shoulders. He’s refilling the expelled oil and lubricant in his neck cabling when she returns.

“He’s back in the cage,” she says, “I didn’t have the compliance to bind his wings, but he shouldn’t be a problem. Is Optimus okay?”

“His vitals are holding perfectly,” he replies, not looking up, “the surgery was a total success. I’m going to keep him in stasis overnight, let his systems replenish, but he should be up and starting PT tomorrow.”

She nods. “And you? Are you hurt?”

“I’m fine.” It’s a lie, but a white one—there’s a chunk of plating over his subspace that Pharma tore off, but while it hurts, he can fix it in twenty, and it’s not going to cripple him.

“Good,” Arcee says, and then, in a much _angrier_ tone of voice, “what the _hell_ was that?”

“I told you to keep an eye on Pharma.”

“Not him! _You!_ I _expected_ something from a criminal sadist, but you? What were you _thinking?_ ” She glances down at his hands to make sure he’s not holding anything delicate, then hits him hard on the arm. He yelps, startled, and pulls away.

“Let me explain,” he says, rubbing his arm. She crosses hers across her chest.

“You’d better.”

Ratchet sighs. “I did what I did with Optimus’ safety at the very forefront of my mind at all times. Please,” he holds a hand up as Arcee opens her mouth to interject, “there’s a lot to say, and I’d like to recharge tonight. I promise, it’ll make sense.”

He takes a seat by the medical berth. After a moment, Arcee follows suit, leaning against the ground bridge console. Ratchet glances at her, turning words over in his mind. She’s younger than him. That’ll make this harder.

“How much do you know about the Quadrant System?” He starts at last, because he has to start somewhere. Arcee gives him a blank stare.

“Never heard of it. System like a star system? Is this a ‘vacation gone wrong’ story? Because I get enough of those from Smokescreen.”

“System like a…social system. It makes sense you’ve never heard of it, the Cybertronian Government overhauled it a long time ago. Replaced it with Endura around the time Decepticon rallies turned into Decepticon riots.” He sighs, checks Optimus’ monitor on instinct. Everything’s holding steady, because of _course_ it is, now that _perfect Pharma_ got his slimy little—whatever. “I won’t go into it, but one of the four quadrants…when I was at medical school with Pharma, we were a Kismet. Things were different back then—before Delphi, he was a very different—“

“You don’t need to explain yourself,” Arcee interrupts, “a lot of mechs were…different. The war changed _all_ of us, and not all of us for the better.” The light of her optics flickers. “I get it. I know.”

Right. She’s young, but not _that_ young. Ratchet nods sympathetically—but Arcee is already bouncing back. She’s a hard bot to keep down.

“So,” she says, “back when that monster was just a brilliant hot doctor, what _was_ a Kismet?”

Ratchet snorts. “I think ‘hot’ is pretty generous,” he says, “less repulsive’, maybe.”

“I dunno, Ratch, I’m hearing a _lot_ of protesting right now. He’s not even that hard on the eyes _now_. I mean, he _is_ a flier—“

“ _Eyap-yap-yap,_ I’m not hearing this,” Ratchet interrupts, before Arcee goes and gets blue on him (well. Bluer). “It isn’t—a kismet isn’t that kind of a relationship! There’s—I mean, there’s _aspects_ of it that are…physical— _don’t give me that look—_ but it’s not like you’re thinking. A kismet is based on an intense rivalry, a desire to be better than your kismesis. To improve upon yourself out of a driving frustration with someone else.”

“Frustration?”

“Some mechs call it hatred,” Ratchet says, shooting a meaningful glance towards their impromptu brig, “they’re _wrong,_ but it’s an easy simplification to make.”

“But it’s—so Pharma is…jealous of Optimus?”

“Yes and no. He’s not—“ he stops, rubs his helm. He’s very tired, and he hasn’t had to _explain_ this to someone in—well. Ever. “As the name implies, the quadrant system is made of four basic relationships, two ‘romantic’ and two ‘platonic’, each borne out of a specific social…desire, I guess you could say. Devotion, pacification, resolution, and…frustration. Each one is a flipped side of two others. What Orion and I had—what Optimus and I _have—_ is the red quadrant, devotion, which is related to both the pale quadrant—pacification, the platonic equivalent—and the black quadrant, the kismet, which is…physically similar, but emotionally different. Am I making sense?”

“You’re not… _not_ making sense,” Arcee says, “you haven’t lost me yet. I thought you and Optimus were Conjunx. Is that the same as…red? The red quadrant?”

“They’re…similar. Not exactly the same. We’ve been going _by_ Conjunx Endura since before the war,” he admits, “but we didn’t go through the rites. It was just…it became easier to say to young bots who didn’t have the quadrants as a frame of reference. And our relationship _does_ have a permanence to it that most quadrant-based relationships don’t—one of the bigger issues with the quadrant system is that it’s easy to slide from one form of relationship to another.”

Ratchet pauses, ostensibly to vent and sort through his thoughts, but also to get a read on Arcee. As a general rule, she wears confusion and shock plain on her face. He sees neither, but she isn’t piping up with a quick comment, either. He releases some warm air and cycles something fresh back into his systems.

“The major issue with comparing Conjunx to quadrants,” he says after a moment, “and the reason it’s hard to explain exactly _what_ Pharma’s outburst came from, is that in a quadrant system, it’s typical to have multiple romantic partners at a time.”

“Oh.”

“It’s known,” Ratchet says, “it’s expected. The mechs you’re in quadrants with are the most important mechs in your life—but the fact is, if you’ve got five _most important mechs_ in your life—“

“Sorry,” Arcee cuts in, “five? You said there were four.”

“Oh, right,” Ratchet says, “the ash quadrant is comprised of three people. That’s resolution, it’s…convincing two people you love individually, but who hate each other, not to commit to a kismet, because you know they wouldn’t be good for each other.”

“What?” She blinks. “Okay, _now_ I’m lost.”

“Let’s forget the ash quadrant ever existed,” Ratchet says, “it’s not really relevant to—I mean, if you _want_ to talk about this later—“

“Oh, we’ll be talking about this later,” she grumbles, “no offense, but I’m starting to see why this system doesn’t really exist anymore.”

“Harsh, but fair. Usually there’s a visual. A graph,” Ratchet says. “In my defense, I was never in an ash quadrant, I didn’t have the time. Actually, most mechs never are—it’s kind of an outlier, but it’s common _enough_ that it needed to be classified as _something._ It’s more common in semiorganic life forms. What was I talking about before we started talking about…whatever this is?”

“Something about the most important mechs in your life,” Arcee prompts, “hopefully to explain why Pharma just lost it like that.”

“Oh yes, of course,” he says, “when you have five _most important mechs_ in your life, at some point you realize that one of those five mechs is more important than the rest of them. It’s not a ranking system, but for most mechs, there’s someone you…prioritize. Every mech is different in which quadrant they value above all else, but usually there’s some understanding between the mechs involved. Optimus and I both chose red, and our moirails—pale quadrant partners—understood that, and, you know, they were fine with it. Pharma…”

“Pharma wanted to be the most important mech in your life,” Arcee says, starting to nod, “that’s why he hates Optimus. He’s not jealous of what you _have,_ he’s jealous of what you… _value._ ”

“He can’t stand being in second place. Not to me, not to anyone.”

“So he…” Arcee furrows her brow. “You and Pharma, you’re not still…”

“What? Oh, no. No, no no.” Ratchet shakes his head, and glances again at Optimus’ vitals on the monitor. Still holding steady. “Even if Delphi hadn’t happened, the government outlawed the actual _usage_ of the quadrant system long ago. Red and pale are close enough to Conjunx and Amica to pass, but…well. Things change.” He stretches—he’s going to have to reattach that bit of plating to his subspace before recharging, and it’s starting to sting—and makes to stand up. “Kismets in particular made the government very uncomfortable during heavy political opposition. If your kismesis is on the other side—or you develop feelings of intense rivalry for someone you’re literally _at war against_ —well. No one wants to kill their own partner. It would make things complicated.”

Arcee nods, and shifts her weight. “Thanks for the history lesson,” she says, “but how does all that pertain to you egging Pharma on? You could have just…conceded.”

“No, I couldn’t,” Ratchet says, “because that’s not what Pharma _wanted._ If I’d just said whatever it took to make him let Optimus live, I’d be saying that my relationship with Optimus was more important than our Kismet. By insulting him, I was letting him think he was the more important of the two.”

“He was testing you?”

“I don’t know what he thought he was doing.” Ratchet sighs, then gives her a tired smile. “Thank you, Arcee. For staying. I’m sorry I worried you.”

She smiles back, shrugs. “I’m sorry I doubted you. You’re really okay?”

“I’ve got a minor plating issue. No big deal. You should go recharge,” he says, “Pharma doesn’t pose a threat anymore. I won’t be up long.”

“Actually, I think I’m gonna go for a drive,” she says, straightening up and rolling her shoulders, “my processor’s going about a thousand miles a second, and I could use some time to cool off. I’ve got some things to think about.”

Ratchet waves a cavalier hand and returns to his work station, giving Optimus an affectionate once-over. Behind him, he hears the telltale clank of transformation seams, and Arcee’s motors kick into gear as she roars off down the exit of the base and into the Nevada evening.

The plate’s back over his subspace in no more than five minutes, and Ratchet glances down the hallway. He really should get some recharge—he’s tired, his hands ache, and his intake is running low. Optimus should be out for another twenty hours—Arcee won’t be back for at least two. The base is totally empty.

Slowly, his gaze shifts towards the second hallway, the makeshift brig. This is a terrible idea. He knows it’s a terrible idea.

But his pedes lead him down it anyway.

 

 

“You’re really something, you know that?”

Pharma sits innocently on the edge of his berth, wiggling his unbound wings experimentally. “Is it my fault if you make me crazy?” He asks. “I mean, you were provoking me. I hardly see why I’m to blame, here.”

“Since I sent out that beacon, you’ve done nothing but antagonize me,” Ratchet says, crossing his arms. “What do you think we are? I mean, what do you think is going to happen?”

“Does your little guard know?” He asks, gaze flickering pointedly up and down Ratchet’s frame in a true show of confidence, or at the very least, untamped arousal. “She seems young. Does she even know what mechs _like_ us are? Where is she, anyway? I thought you were scared to be near me.” He smiles wickedly.

“You’ve badly misjudged my priorities,” he replies, “I just don’t trust you around Optimus. I’m perfectly capable of handling you on my own.”

“Oh, that’s right, Optimus,” Pharma sneers, “I’d forgotten—at least, I think I tried to—how painfully _devoted_ you are to him. I suppose he is _always_ your first priority, isn’t he? A part of me is embarrassed for you.”

“I could say the same about you,” Ratchet says, a hard-chewed smile working its way across his face. “You responded to that beacon awfully quickly, didn’t you?”

Pharma falters. He has that expression Ratchet remembers so well from the fights that built their relationship, that split second of panic poisoning his well of certainty. “I never had much to do on the ship,” he says, “I’ve been in the brig, you know—“

“ _Really,_ ” Ratchet says, stepping toward the cell door. Instinctively, Pharma steps back, despite the barrier, and Ratchet’s smile flourishes. “According to Ultra Magnus, the reason you even had video recording equipment to begin with is because you’ve been working on the staff of the very ship that holds you. He says you’re technically too valuable of an asset to just throw in the _brig,_ so…it seems like you’ve actually been _very_ busy.”

Pharma’s eyes dart toward the door on Ratchet’s side of the wall. “Your guard,” he says, a change of topic, a bitter conceit he can’t possibly want to make, “doesn’t my demeanor concern you? Where is—“

“Arcee’s on a drive, clearing her processor, all that shit,” Ratchet says, “again, now that Optimus is safely out of the way in recovery stasis, I didn’t feel the need to involve her. I’m _more_ than capable of dealing with something like you on my own.”

“Like me?”

“An obsessive,” Ratchet says easily, “a fanatic. On a warship like Magnus’ arc, bots getting their limbs blown off and their tanks ruptured, never a break in the monotony, _you_ made sure you made time to answer me, didn’t you? Cleared your schedule. You know, I was _wondering_ why you kept harping on _obsession_ long after your point was made last night. I figured you’d just lost your touch, but that’s not it, is it?” He runs careless fingers along the sides of the prison door. “What is it about me, Pharma? What _is_ it that drives you so crazy?”

“Nothing! You’re pathetic,” Pharma snaps back, arms crossed in front of his chest defensively, “you’ve got nothing on me, you’re a failure that never bothered to accept what he was!”

“Am I?” Ratchet slams a hand over the door release button, his energy electric, crackling through him in waves of directionless charge as he steps into the cell. “I’m not the one who rushed halfway across the galaxy for the opportunity to hear his ex-kismesis praise him.”

“And I should have known better than think you could ever _do_ it,” Pharma says, scrambling for something to stand on, “you can’t even see where you’ve failed! You can’t admit anyone’s better than you because it would force you to look at the mistakes you’ve made. Can’t fix your matesprit, can’t even fix a simple voice-box—“

“That’s it,” he snarls, and thrusts Pharma into the wall behind him with a shove to the chassis. His wings splay against the concrete behind him—his optics glow in terrified arousal. The whole effect is stunning, and it hits Ratchet right between the legs, mixes with his mounting fury. “You know _nothing_ about what we’re doing here! What this _team, my_ team has done! You’re a _coward!_ You do nothing but sneak and crawl and run and hide—“

“And yet, I’m better than _you,_ ” Pharma snarls, tilting his head back, “you can’t even say it, but you still came crawling to me for help!”

“You talk too much,” Ratchet says, and slams his mouth into Pharma’s.

The effect is immediate. Pharma bucks against him, moaning, his lips parting as Ratchet shoves his glossa against his teeth. His fingers scrabble against the broad flat plates of his chassis, seeking out transformation seams that are no longer there.

Ratchet can feel his engine rumbling, hears his vents flutter open and steam—he breaks away and dives into the delicate cabling at the nape of Pharma’s neck, biting viciously into the pulse center of his main energon line. Pharma moans like a ship dragging against a metal dock. It’s ridiculous. It gets him stupidly hot.

“Fine, you’re right,” he gasps, clutching the back of Ratchet’s helm, “are you happy? You’re right, just hurry up and give it to me—“

“You stupid fucker,” Ratchet hisses into his neck, sweeping his hands up Pharma’s slender torso and catching a fluttering wing in either hand, “I don’t care about _winning_ , you’re the one who cares.”

“Liar—of course you care. You care about everyone and everything.” Pharma gets fingers behind the plates of Ratchet’s hips and drags him forward, grinding impotently against him. When Ratchet strokes up one of his wingtips, he shudders and whines, running desperate and hot. “All you _do_ is—hah—care, it’s one of your more admirable—“

Furious, Ratchet thrusts the weight of his body against Pharma, crushing him back against the wall. He keens like he’s in heat, melting in Ratchet’s capable hands. “I _told_ you to _shut up,_ ” he growls.

Pharma flutters those stupid eyelids at him. “Make me,” he says, and runs his glossa over his bottom lip.

There’s a ping on his hub, requesting permission to release his modesty panel, and he confirms it without a second thought. It rockets open, his spike pressurizing instantly as he grabs Pharma by the shoulder in one hand, the helm in the other, and shoves him roughly to his knees. 

They make eye contact, and for a second, Ratchet freezes. It strikes him all at once what a terrible idea this is, that exposing himself like this to a _literal war criminal_ who he once had a now-illegal relationship with is just asking for death, or at the very least a painful and humiliating injury that would be _very_ hard to explain to the rest of his team. There’s a heat in Pharma’s eyes, and it’s burning away at him, not just anger but hunger, his field radiating fury and bitterness and anticipation, all poisoned by this seeping aftertaste of arousal—

—And then Pharma opens his mouth and runs that glossa along the underside of his spike, and any resistance he felt melts away in the heat.

He groans, out loud, and slams one hand into the wall for support. His other hand is still cradling Pharma by the back of the helm, and he can feel him pull back, glossa catching on the underside of his spike’s head as he does, before moving to swallow him down. _Primus,_ but his mouth is wet and warm, his glossa flexing expertly against him—Ratchet bucks up into him, cursing, reveling in the sound and tightness of Pharma choking on him.

“ _Shit,_ ” he hisses, grinding his denta together. Pharma pulls off, coughing and glaring.

“You’re a fucking heel, you know that?” He snarls, hands finding purchase on Ratchet’s thighs. “A little _warning_ next time might be appreciated, you know, since I’m doing you a _favor_ here—“

“Shut _up,_ ” Ratchet snaps, and drags his helm back into place. He feels the heady vibration of Pharma moaning around him, sending little electric shocks to the receptors along his spike, and looks down to see him glowering up at him, jaw straining, lips full and gagged. He’s awful. He looks amazing. He _feels_ amazing.

“You feel fucking amazing,” he grits out before he can stop himself, and Pharma’s eyes blow wide—he _keens_ around Ratchet’s spike, lids fluttering, and there’s the soft _snickt_ of his modesty cover coming open.

“Are you getting off on this?”

Pharma makes a noise around him that’s probably supposed to be ‘fuck you’—he’s certainly making the right face for it—and plunges two fingers into his own valve. Ratchet can’t see underneath him, but the sound is amazingly wet, and the pace he sets makes his spike throb heavy on Pharma’s glossa. 

With a hiss, he drags his helm back, almost slamming it into the wall, and shoves a thumb into Pharma’s mouth. His lips and chin are wet with oral lubricant, and he’s venting hard, eyes burning and fluttering as he fucks himself. He glances down, like he’s trying to look at Ratchet’s hand, and runs his glossa over his thumb in a half-hearted flick.

He snatches his hand back and strikes Pharma hard across the cheek. “Get on your back,” he snarls, stepping aside and shoving at his helm, dragging him towards the center of the room.

“Yes,” Pharma gasps, ecstatic, “yes, yes, yes—“ he half-crawls forward, pulls himself onto his side and rolls onto his back with some effort, fluttering his wings to make room. His fingers are still working his valve, legs spreading as Ratchet gets to his knees between them. The lubricant blooms up, collecting around his fingers and threatening to overflow in heavy drops onto the floor.

Ratchet grabs him by the wrist and drags his fingers out, hungry for the wet strands that form between his valve and his hand, before slamming it against the ground at his side. Pharma is rolling his hips up, stroking his valve against Ratchet’s spike enticingly. His knees dig into his sides.

“Hurry up,” he hisses, “I need this, I _know_ you need this—“

Ratchet growls at him and gets his own spare hand around his spike. His own engine is running so hard he’s half-worried it’s going to start smoking, his vents blasting so loud he can barely think. He slaps his spike against the glowing charge of Pharma’s anterior node once, twice—hisses in pleasure at the electric shock of it and the aborted pleading noise Pharma makes—then, with the effort of refocusing, repositions the head of his spike against him and sinks into his valve.

Beneath him, Pharma screams like dimestore shareware, torso arching up until he’s pressed against Ratchet’s body. For his own part, Ratchet’s vocal processor releases nothing but a burst of static—if Pharma’s _mouth_ felt good, Primus—his valve _burns_ with charge and heat, pulling at him, so wet he can hear displaced lubricant splashing out of him. He snatches Pharma against him by the waist, drags him close, thrusts up into him with force. He keens again, the arousal spiraling in tightening waves of his valve, squeezing at his spike from tip to base.

“Fuck,” he snarls, and presses Pharma down into the ground again, every inch of him burning to get closer, to grind that stupid paint off his chassis, recolor him with streaks of white—he dives in for the cabling at his neck again, buries his denta into whatever they can reach, and snaps his hips up against him.

Pharma’s legs wrap around his waist as he sets the pace, fast and desperate, each strike driving another miserably aroused noise out of him—he’s _so_ tight, legs and arms grabbing at Ratchet like he’s trying to absorb him into himself, fingers scratching at his neck, at his back, digging into his grill, fucking into his vents—

“You’re so big,” he groans, denta grinding, “I hate how good you are, I _hate_ how good you fill me up—“

“Shut the fuck up,” Ratchet gasps, between forcing his glossa between cables, “just shut the fuck up, you never just shut the _fuck up—_ “

“I hate you,” he says, bucks his hips back into Ratchet’s spike like he needs it _deeper,_ “I hate you _so much,_ I’ve always hated— _Primus, there—_ I’ve always hated you I’ve _always—“_

“Shut up, shut _up,”_ Ratchet moans, “shut up and take it, just do what you’re _good for_ and overload for me—“

“Tell me you hate it!” Pharma’s fingers dig into his vents and _pull,_ it hurts so good, that electric ping of agony—“tell me you hate how good it is, say you hate how good _I am!_ ”

Ratchet opens his mouth to curse, but all that comes out is another burst of static—he wants to scream like a beast in heat, the fury and arousal burn so hot he can feel steam starting to pour out of him. “I fucking _hate_ how you feel,” he manages, voice starting to wobble, “you feel fucking amazing, I hate you, I _hate_ this—“

“Yes, _yes—“_

“You’re so fucking tight, you feel brand fucking new,” he snarls, “no one’s fucked you like this in a long time, have they? Just you and your— _hngh—_ stupid little hand, drenching some berthspread somewhere, wishing it was me? You’re pathetic, you’re pathetic—“

Pharma slams his helm into the ground, chassis arching up into him, optics surging with the warning light of expelling charge. “Fuck, Ratchet—“

“Pharma—“

It hits him like a thousand volts. Pharma screams until his voice literally shorts out, charge surging from every node inside his valve directly into Ratchet’s oversensitive spike. It’s too much, _he’s_ too much, and the pleasure sings through every molecule of Ratchet’s frame, burning and throbbing until with a burst of electricity, he’s releasing charge back into Pharma, spike bursting with transfluid as he topples over the edge. It spills out where their hips meet, dribbling down their plating onto the concrete floor.

The sound of heavy venting echoes off the walls of the cell. Ratchet slumps forward, resting his helm against Pharma’s shoulder.

“Are you drooling on me?” Pharma asks. “Gross. Get off.”

“Make me.”

Pharma shoves at him ineffectually, any strength he had entirely sapped by the force of his overload. “Get off,” he says, after a moment of grunting, “move. Get off.”

“Fine,” Ratchet says, rolling over, “but I’m doing this because I want to, not because you asked me to.”

“I can’t believe you. You’re such a child.”

They’re quiet for a moment, lying on their backs, staring at the ceiling.

“Why did you choose him?” Pharma says, into the silence. The frustration and fury is stripped away, like it always is after an interface like that. They just can’t muster the strength to be awful to each other. “I mean, I’m good. I was good, I am good. It’s not _just_ me, I _know_ I drive you crazy, too. Even if you won’t admit it.”

“I didn’t _want_ to choose,” Ratchet says, still feeling embarrassingly breathless. He feels keyed up and turbo-charged and _wonderful_ , but his struts aren’t working and his HUB keeps pinging him with overheating warnings. “You’re the one who gave me an ultimatum.”

Pharma frowns. “I never did that,” he says, “I don’t _remember_ doing something like that. Did I do that? I wouldn’t do that.”

“You _did_ do that,” Ratchet says, feeling cross again, “you told me you’d leave me if I didn’t choose. You _told_ me I was your only quadrant, and it was only fair if you were mine, too. Got really belligerent.” He sighs. “It’s funny, I’m…naturally predisposed to prioritize, and I might _not’ve_ chosen Orion. If you hadn’t pulled _that_ shit. I don’t like being told what I have to do.”

He stares. “You left me because I _annoyed_ you?” He snaps. “That’s what a kismesis is _supposed_ to do!”

“I _left_ you because you overstepped your bounds by putting pressure on me to _leave_ my other quadrants. If you need to go all new age and monogamous, that’s _fine,_ but I can’t be that for you.” With some effort, he straightens up, sitting up on the floor. The door to the cell is still open. He’s really got to go close that. “I hate you, Pharma. I still do. _And_ I love Optimus. But if you won’t _let me_ do both, I’m not going to.”

“So, what? You want me to _make friendly_ with him?” Pharma sneers, starting to straighten up as well. “Like he does with me?”

“Despite what you might think, Optimus doesn’t hate you,” Ratchet says, getting to his feet, “at least, not for your relationship with me. Before Delphi, he didn’t hate you at _all._ And before the war, it never bothered me when he disappeared off to go crack Megatronus in the jaw over some awful hot take. Because I trusted him to engage fully with the quadrant system, and he trusted me. You never did.” He moves for the door. “If you’re going to be jealous, stick to your own quadrant! Wheeljack’s been making some _very_ frustrating overtures recently!”

“What? Wheeljack? That trumped up little—“

“Bulkhead’s moirail? Oh, yeah,” Ratchet says, grinning smugly and slamming the door-close button behind him as Pharma leaps to his feet, “he’s a total _pest._ Reminds me of college all over again—I’ve been single for a while, I think it’s time to get back out there.”

“If you even _think_ about dropping _me_ for some—he’s not even a valve mech!” Pharma hisses, “you think he’s going to give you what _I_ give you? Don’t be absurd. He hasn’t got the range! All he can do is call you by the wrong name a couple of times, he—Ratchet! Don’t you turn your back on me!”

“Are you serious? Are you courting me right now?” Ratchet leans in close to the glass, smiling. “You’re disgusting, Pharma. Despicable. Degenerate.”

“Mm, tell me how you _really_ feel.”

Ratchet opens his mouth to retort, then pauses. This is…a bad idea. It’s still a bad idea. It was when he walked in here, and it was when he got his spike out, and it is now that there’s a wall between them again. “I feel like,” he says, “it’s going to take a little more than a fuck and a few cruel words to get me in your pocket again. If you want to make this work, you _earn_ it.” He crosses his arms. “You’ve got at least another 30k in the brig, reduction or not. You want to be my kismesis? _Seduce_ me.”

Pharma scowls. “You’re more trouble than you’re worth,” he snaps, “I’ve got what I wanted from you, anyway. If you’re not up for another round, you can do me a favor and get out of my sight. Not like I can send you videos from deep space, anyway.”

“Use fucking ASCII like everyone else in the galaxy, you phenomenal shitbag,” Ratchet says, “anyway, if that’s all, I’m going. Think it over. You’ve _certainly_ got the time.” He turns back toward the door.

“Ratchet, wait.”

Ratchet pauses, turns. Pharma is pressed up against the glass, squinting at him. He’s smiling nastily. “I love to see you leave, but I _hate_ to watch you go,” he says, gaze trailing down Ratchet’s frame in a way that’s downright _filthy._

“Get fucked,” Ratchet snaps, and types in the code for the door out. He can feel Pharma’s eyes on him the whole time, and his systems run excited, satisfied, and uncomfortably hot.

 

 

Wheeljack swings by the next day and picks Pharma up. Ratchet doesn’t trade a word with either of them—he sits in the medibay next to Optimus’ berth, dipping in and out of recharge all morning. Arcee passes by him once or twice, reassuring him quietly that Pharma’s transport is being taken care of and insisting he stay put when he tries to get up and help. When his chronometer pings him in the mid-afternoon, he lowers the stasis charge.

The quiet is eerie and unfamiliar in the base. Ratchet takes it as a personal vacation. Between recharge and consciousness, he imagines an affectionate hand on his shoulder, and wakes up resting against the soft slope of the medical berth.

There’s a soft sighing, snuffling sound, and for the first time in more than a week, Ratchet can feel the tension in his spark ease. Optimus groans and shifts like a living thing. “Ratchet,” he mutters, “hello.”

“Hey there,” Ratchet says, “how are you feeling?”

“Tired,” he says, voice soppy with painkillers, “mouth dry. What happened?”

“Nothing much. I’ll tell you later.”

“Oh.” He squints at the monitor next to him. “Where am I?”

“In your berth,” Ratchet replies honestly, “with me. Try to get some rest. I’ll get you something for your mouth.”

Optimus grunts and shifts his hand, fingers reaching. Ratchet takes it in his, and watches his Conjunx shift and slip away into easy recharge. He squeezes his thumb. “You scared us there, Orion,” he says quietly, “don’t do that to me again.”

There’s no response but the hum of Optimus’ engine, and Ratchet leans against him, relaxing, and checks his commlink for messages. There’s two from Arcee, both on the same frequency, presumably from Magnus’ ship—one announcing that Pharma is back in the commander’s custody, the other a general departure message and ETA—and one from Wheeljack, which starts with the sentence _‘Hey Doc, I had a nice long discussion with your pal Pharma, and_ he _seems to think’_ —which Ratchet has no intention of reading. Not right now, anyway.

There’s also a message from the general communications hub, from a frequency he doesn’t recognize, attached to a name that he definitely does. A large zip file, containing several large data-count ASCII texts, as well as a video file, this one from halfway across the galaxy. He opens it privately on his hub.

_“Sir, I just got your message and I am here to do anything I can to help,”_ First Aid says, sitting at an actual table, hands splayed excitedly, _“we just received the beacon and I dropped_ everything, _I am all-in. First of all, I’ve studied_ Parsaeterna necius _under Pharma’s tutelage while I was stationed at Delphi. I thought his thesis was a little obtuse, though, a little poorly written—not to dismiss his capabilities, of course, we all know what he can do—so I went through it, I got some notes together, and I put together a walk-through on how to_ read _the paper, so you can better understand what he’s trying to say. Now, I’m sure you’ve read that, sir, but just in case, I’m sending it in the same zip as this file, as well as a few preliminary texts I’ve scanned for viruses off the dark web that’ll help recontexualize your techniques and a recipe for my stay-awake-mix._

_“Why do I need a stay-awake-mix, I’m sure you ask? Well, none of those files have viruses on them—I’ve done a deep-clean, I promise they are all_ perfectly _safe, sir, but you’re going to have to download a couple of them as chunk files, and that’s gonna require you to be awake for about seventy-two hours. Which is never a problem for me, sir! But I’ve been informed that the planet you’re currently on has a twenty-four hour solar cycle, which I assume you’ve taken into account in your new recharge habits. So I dug around and found a recipe from my student days, you’re going to have to brew_ regular _engex with c32, and that’s going to give you the kick you need to really—“_

Ratchet turns the recording off and smiles to himself. Trust First Aid to rush to help, if a little too late to do anything. He’s a good mech.

“What are you smiling about?” Optimus asks, and Ratchet turns to find him propping himself up in his berth.

“I thought you were going to recharge more.”

“I will in a _minute,_ ” Optimus grouses, “it seems hard to stay down. I feel worn out, but not _tired._ So.” He smiles. “What are you smiling about?”

“Just a message from an old friend,” Ratchet says, “First Aid, one of my old students. It was nice of him to get in touch.”

“Oh,” Optimus says, “so not because Pharma came by?”

Ratchet splutters. “Wh—how do _you_ know about that? You were unconscious the _whole time!”_

“Oh, I just had a _feeling,_ ” Optimus says, now looking _very_ self-satisfied and borderline mischievous, “your field is all over the place, old friend. It is… _satiated._ ”

“That’s—not even—and you—actually, I don’t have to explain anything to you,” Ratchet snaps, feeling _more_ flustered by the second under the weight of his Conjunx’s growing smile, “but it’s a gross thing to say to me. That’s gross. I did not—he was only here to work on you!”

“But he worked on _you,_ after?”

“That is—no! Maybe! Don’t be gross!”

Optimus laughs—winces—brings a hand to his side. Ratchet leaps to steady him. “Careful,” he mutters, “you’re still just out of surgery.”

“That’s why Pharma was here?”

“Yes,” Ratchet says. Then, more somberly, “are you angry with me?”

“Angry? I am _thrilled,_ ” Optimus says, closing his eyes. “You are always at your best when frustrated with him, old friend. Whenever you went off to scrap with him on Cybertron, I would wait in anticipation, knowing you would be bringing your A-game home.” He hums contentedly. “Not to put too fine a point on it, but when you get particularly cranked up, you fuck like a rivet gun.”

Ratchet spits.

“So, am I going to benefit from this visit?” he asks, smiling.

“You already _have,_ you’re _alive,_ ” Ratchet grumbles, covering his mouth, “if you’re asking if we’re going to interface while you’re literally on an operating table, the answer is no. You need to start PT whenever you can get up, I’m predicting a week of recovery time. Stop rolling your eyes at me.”

“I am deeply sad, Ratchet,” Optimus says, shaking his head, “you are _denying_ me. I am deeply, _deeply_ sad.”

“You’re high on mechamphetamines, is what you are,” he says crossly, “you’re just lucky the base is empty.”

“The base is _empty?”_

“ _No—_ “

It takes about an hour to convince Optimus to put his head back down on the slab and rest up, and another before Arcee returns to the base, looking a little haggard after a few hours with Wheeljack but otherwise no worse for wear.

“The rest of the team should be on their way back soon,” she says, “I got a comm from Bulkhead a while back. Have you gotten any recharge?”

“A little. Optimus has been in and out most of today.”

“I’ll stay with him. You go get some rest.”

“The ground bridge? Will you be able to—“

“I can handle it, Ratchet,” she interrupts, “the coordinates for the bridge are still set. We haven’t used it since they left. Everyone’s going to want to see Optimus, and honestly, I’m much better equipped to tell them ‘no’ than you are right now. Go on.”

“Are you sure? Because—“

“Get the scrap out of here already,” she snaps, “I was just in a vehicle with Wheeljack for ten hours, I don’t need to argue with you too.”

“Alright, _alright,_ ” Ratchet says, straightening up. “Scrap?”

She shrugs. “I don’t like cursing in front of the kids.”

He goes. He rests. He pretends not to hear Arcee excitedly telling Smokescreen and Bumblebee (who seem keen to hear everything) about the mad doctor Pharma, and the tussle that almost cost Optimus’ life. He pretends not to hear his own name, soaked in the glowing vigor of heroism every time it comes into play.

For the first time in weeks, his recharge is easy.

**Author's Note:**

> Wheeljack and Pharma are just talking about how sexy Ratchet is when he's being very annoying, and also Pharma is threatening to murder Wheeljack as soon as he escapes prison. This is a fire-forged friendship.
> 
> Also
> 
> **Arcee:** hey Optimus, Ratchet said you could tell me more about the quadrant system?  
>  **Optimus, a romance-enthusiast, vibrating at the speed of light:** I enjoy speaking about that subject a normal amount  
>  **Arcee:** uh  
>  **Optimus, pulling out poster boards:** okay so the first thing we need to cover is the shape of the  
>  **Arcee:** robo-jesus take me now


End file.
